WAS BACH A POLYPHONIST?

In popular writing on Bach, one frequently finds characterizations and phrases such as the great polyphonist...the master of counterpoint...the inheritor of the great polyphonic tradition...the ingenious contrapuntal writing...the essential linear motion...the clarity of the polyphonic line. I have often thought that such characterizations, at best, reveal more about the narrator than about Bach, and my belief has recently been reinforced by the work of the Canadian organist Dr. William Renwick. He is an associate professor of music theory at McMaster University and a fellow of the Royal Canadian College of Organists, and his work concerns the Langloz Manuscript, a 75-page item in the Berlin City Library that contains 60 little-known preludes and fugues attributed to J. S. Bach.¹ Whether these are genuinely Bach’s own compositions or not is beside the point, but that they are genuinely from Bach’s own time, place, and musical sphere is beyond doubt.

What is most significant about these pieces is that each and all of them are written entirely on one staff, using figured bass. This, according to Renwick, reveals a “method of conceptualizing fugal composition and improvisation as an extension and refinement of thoroughbass rather than as an extension of counterpoint, [and] illustrates a harmonic rather than contrapuntal conception of fugue.”²

The essence of thoroughbass (i.e., figured bass) is rhythmic propulsion of harmony. It is the historical antithesis of polyphony. It pervaded European art music for two centuries, and was at the foundation of Bach’s compositional, improvisational, and pedagogical method. A tradition of modified 16th-century-style pure polyphony existed in the 18th century, but as Christoph Wolff showed long ago, Bach cultivated this style in a limited number of works only. J. J. Fux’s “species counterpoint” provided an 18th-century theoretical backdrop for 16th-century polyphonic style, and became the basis for 19th-century and early-20th-century recipes for contrapuntal and fugal style, but Bach’s works never conformed to the recipes.

In the 1940’s, Manfred Bukofzer suggested that “Bach lived at a time when the declining curve of polyphony and the ascending curve of harmony intersected, where vertical and horizontal forces were in exact equilibrium,” and that this “interpenetration of opposed forces [was] realized only once in the history of music and Bach is the protagonist of this unique and propitious moment.” But a generation later, Robert Marshall, who studied the original manuscript scores of Bach’s vocal works in their entirety, found that Bach’s compositional process was not so neatly balanced, and that, in fact, Bach at least occasionally composed in terms of “melody and bass.”

Bach’s counterpoint in my view “is never other than a figurate realization of the bass...a ‘virtual counterpoint’ that has more to do with harmony and rhythm than with historical polyphony. If Michelangelo could claim that his sculpture was only a process of elimination––in which he merely brought into high relief that which already existed in the mass of stone––then much the same can be said for Bach, whose counterpoint only brings into high relief that which already exists within the mass of harmony.”³

In 18th-century ensembles, figured bass is the “glue” that binds the simultaneously-sounding parts together. But in solo keyboard repertoire, this “glue” must exist in the mind of the player, and herein lies the conundrum. In performing fugues, for example, is the keyboardist really playing three or four lines––or only one or two? The forbidding appearance of Bach’s keyboard and organ scores is part of the problem, since Bach’s notational propensity is to write-out contrapuntally what often really amounts to a single melodic formulation.

Looking at the matter more empirically, let’s deconstruct a three or four-part keyboard fugue. First, determine the main pulse at which the harmony changes. Second, isolate the bass. Third, at each main pulse, figure the bass according to its vertical combinations with the other written parts. Now realize the figured bass with both hands, but without reference to the other parts.

What we have at this point would be a valid prototype, an “uncarved block of stone” in which the essential identity and physiognomy of the piece are still substantially conveyed. (See ILLUSTRATION, below.) What J. S. Bach taught his students was that, with mind, ear, and hand working together, one could arrive at a “perfected” realization of this same figured bass in which the finished product might be no different than our un-deconstructed original. This, precisely, was the intent and purpose of the materials in the Langloz Manuscript.

It is puzzling to me that no well-known scholar or performer thus far has ever actively challenged the prevailing popular view of “Bach the polyphonist.” But it is fascinating to contemplate what an invigorating effect it would have on players and builders alike, if the propulsion of harmonic rhythm––and not the projection of counterpoint––were to gain priority as to what constitutes an ideal Bach performance. Although Renwick’s book makes no such generalizations, it seems to beg the question, and could signal for a future shift in our understanding of Bach.

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